“Deer? This close to the center of town?”
“I know! Funny isn’t it? But there definitely are other prints, animals of some kind, I’ve seen them myse
My conversation with the receptionist ended there as it was interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Bross, supervisor of Ward 9 where Sanders was located.
“Prof. Withins?” he asked, extending a hand.
“Yes.”
“Nice to meet you. Do you have any questions about our patient before we go upstairs?”
“Not really except that I wondered if it was safe…?”
“Oh, certainly. Sanders is not dangerous, except perhaps to himself. Although the primary reason for his commitment were concerns over suicidal tendencies, there’s been no evidence of that since his arrival here some months ago. It’s only for reasons of safety that he remains on suicide watch.”
“And the ravings that his family said he was having?”
“He still expresses unusual fear about, well…alien invaders and such,” laughed Bross, “but aside from that, he’s managed to convey his concerns in a much less excited manner than before his arrival here.”
“So my interview with him ought to work out all right?”
“He’s quite lucid if that’s what you mean. But don’t expect what he has to say to make any sense!”
At that point, we had entered an elevator and traveled up three flights to Ward 9. It was still early in the evening so the corridor there still bustled a bit with patients sitting quietly in wheelchairs or shuffling down corridors. Others remained in their rooms as a nurse occupied a station at the intersection of two corridors and an orderly and some nurse’s aids worked directly with patients.
“Adele,” said Bross, approaching the nurse’s station. “How is Sanders doing tonight?”
“Same as usual, doctor,” the nurse replied. “He received his meds after supper and asked to be excused from day-room activities. I think he’s eager to speak with the visitor he’s expecting.”
“Very good.”
Taking Sanders’ chart, Bross led the way down to Sanders’ room. The door was open.
“Armand?” said Bross, knocking lightly by way of warning Sanders that his visitor had arrived.
“I’m here, doctor,” came the reply as Sanders swung about in a swivel chair placed before a small metal desk.
“There’s a Prof. Sanders here to see you. I believe he’s expected?”
“He is,” said Sanders, rising from his chair and extending a hand. “Please sit down professor.”
As the only place to sit was on Sanders’ neatly made cot, I took a seat there. Looking the patient over, I was surprised to find him looking quite healthy in his clean hospital whites. And although his face was creased with what some call worry lines, they were by no means predominant. He had a receding hairline and I noticed that his hands shook slightly. The result of the medicines he was taking or something else? Still, overall, I was impressed with his demeanor and inclined to believe that our conversation would be a pleasant one.
“Doctor,” said Sanders.” You’ve heard my story many times before. Do you mind if I fill in Prof. Withins privately?”
“Of course not,” said Bross without hesitation. “I’ll wait down at the station. Let me know if you need me.”
Sanders watched Bross leave but made no attempt to close the door. Then, speaking in a low voice, he addressed me.
“So you’ve come at the request of the university?” he asked.
“Pennsylvania University, yes.”
“Did they give you any reason why they wanted this interview?”
“I think they want to know more about the confusing reports that have been made over the years about the Hughbanks Expedition,” I said truthfully. “It was thought that all of the surviving members had died or dropped from sight, so it came as a surprise when they read that you had appeared as a patient here.”
“The hypocrites!” spat Sanders. “To the public, they act like they’re all scandalized at the reported debacle in Belize, but what they really want to know are more details on what really happened to us. The expedition brought back a number of artifacts that have never seen the light of day because they were buried in storage cabinets in the deepest recesses of the campus. For years, members of the expedition were unable to give them any information about the artifacts because none of us could remember anything about them…”
“How was that?”
“Because we were brainwashed, professor! Oh, don’t look so surprised. Did you really believe that story about our getting involved with local drug dealers? Do you think any professional like Hughbanks would allow something like that? Mixing in local politics is strictly verboten on such digs as you well know otherwise not only would expensive expeditions be jeopardized, but the lives of members put at risk in countries that are often unstable and even lawless.”
“Then there were no drug dealers?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? It was aliens, professor, or at least their human henchmen, that disrupted the dig,” insisted Sanders, moving his chair closer to me. “We were getting too close to their secrets. The aliens…some kind of fungoid-based life-forms who call themselves the Mi-Go…became alarmed when Hughbanks led the expedition into the El Cacao region. There’d never been extensive exploration of the area before, and as we moved deeper into the jungle and began uncovering a whole city of ancient ruins such as had never been seen before in Mayan, Incan, Aztec, or even Tolmec cultures, there were increasing indications that someone didn’t want us to go any farther.”
“You didn’t come across any fields of cannabis plants or…?”
“You still think it was all about drugs, do you professor? No. There was no sign of any drug producing organization or local growers. This was something else. At first, we began to find our way blocked by recently felled trees and later, items began to disappear from our camp: food, tools, medicine, water, until it was no longer possible to fool ourselves that we’d been the ones mislaying the items.
“It was at that point that we ran into the El Cacao natives which we were surprised to find were of European stock, albeit by way of Mexico. Of course, that wasn’t immediately apparent as they’d abandoned western dress for what materials they could find in the jungle so at first, they appeared to us as wild natives what with their skins and feathers and body paint and such. Dr. Hughbanks tried to talk to them, at one point coaxing their leaders into camp for a peace conference. They spoke a corrupted Spanish so that some of our party could communicate with them after a fashion, and it was quickly discovered that though they once had been members of some branch of American Amish, they’d long since abandoned the Christian faith for something far more primitive and to them, virile.”
Sanders lowered his voice and his eyes became more intent. I could tell that whatever kind of mania that had landed him in Pickerton, it had arisen from somewhere inside him and at that point, lay just beneath his calm exterior. I knew then that a wrong word spoken by myself could set him off, so I determined to humor him the best I could.
“Go on,” I said.
“They told us that their ancestors had come to the region many years before and found…creatures already living there, creatures that possessed vast knowledge and, practicing strange surgical techniques, could transport them across abysses of time and space that left their brains bursting with wonder and black delights. After their leaders had returned from such mind-expanding journeys, enthusiasm for the creatures grew to such an extent that it descended into a regard that was indistinguishable from worship.
“Naturally, Hughbanks humored them, the same as you are doing to me I’m sure,” continued Sanders knowingly. “But the same way I can tell that you remain credulous, so too did those natives. They led us on a bit, showing us the ruins and as they took us deeper and deeper into the surrounding jungle, the buildings became more fantastic in design, more inexplicable in purpose. Then one day, we were attacked in camp. We were sei
zed and restrained and it was then that we first set eyes upon the object of the natives’ worship: as a kind of buzzing speech filled the camp, a number of the things emerged fully from the surrounding vegetation. We stared in horror at sight of the crab-like bodies, and it was then that some of us were killed resisting the things. We were taken back into the jungle and shown to an entrance below one of the ruined buildings. It was dark at first, but as we were led downward light appeared, and we emerged into a cavernous space filled with weird humming machinery of a sort never seen in any earthbound laboratory. With mounting horror and disquiet, we were shown bodies of natives where they seemed preserved under glass, the tops of their heads open and their brains removed. I barely recall how the others reacted but for myself, I was somewhat stupefied as we were shown how the brains were stored in cylinders and prepared for fantastic journeys to other times and other galaxies. Some, we were told, were bound for Pluto, one of the alien creatures’ way stations, known to the natives as Yuggoth.
“At that point, as you can well imagine, most of us had had enough. Refusing to see more, we began looking for the way out but by then it was too late. We were prevented from going, and I for one could not help focusing my attention on cruel-looking instruments some of the things held in their claw-like hands…but I can see I’ve gone too far. You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Of course I…”
“They say I’m mad professor, but I’m not,” insisted Sanders. “They brainwashed us is what they did. Not by any psychological means but by a simple surgical technique. That’s why those of us who finally made it back to civilization told some stupid tale of a battle with drug dealers. It was the cover story they wanted us to convey. To discourage any more expeditions to El Cacao — and it worked too. For years our conditioning held as we died one by one. But something must have gone wrong with me. Maybe my body managed to rewire itself, I don’t know but suddenly, a couple years ago, my memory began to return. At first it felt like a dream I was remembering but after a while I became certain that my memories were of no dream. I did some research that corroborated my suspicions. Eventually my memory returned completely and I had no doubts. My mistake was trying to convince my family that I wasn’t mad; that my recollections were of events that really happened. I should have kept it all to myself. As it is, I wound up here and worse, news of my commitment filtered out into the newspapers, because I can’t think of any other way they could have found out about me.”
“Who?”
“The creatures, the Mi-Go…that’s what they call themselves you know. They must have begun to look for me and found me here. Prowlers have been reported lingering on the hospital grounds. You’ve heard about that? There were both human footprints and other less identifiable prints as well, right?”
“I was told they were deer…”
Sanders snorted and leaned back in his chair, shoving it back toward the desk as he did so.
“They weren’t deer!” he almost shouted. “I don’t know how they do it without being spotted but their human servitors, those natives, they help them. They never go anywhere without them. They’re always somewhere nearby.” He laughed then, suddenly. “You don’t believe any of this of course?”
“Well, I…”
“Of course you don’t. Neither would I in your place. But go on, write your report of this interview to the fools at the university…if you want to submit something that’s incomplete. You do want the full story don’t you?”
“Of course, if there’s more…”
“Oh, there is, professor; there is!” He turned and began writing something down on a scrap of paper then handed it to me. “That’s the address of my home in Dean’s Corners. It’s still in my name although my family have been trying to get it transferred into theirs. For now though, all the material I’ve managed to gather since my memory began to return is still there. You’ll find the key to the house hidden in the gutter over the back door. My family is in Florida for the season so you should be able to stay as long as you need without fear of being disturbed. My notes and other things are in the study. With the door key, you’ll find a second, smaller key. That’s for the locked cabinet in my desk. Use it. And professor, you shouldn’t waste any time in getting to Dean’s Corners. It won’t take long for those who’ve been following me to figure out that they need to search my home for anything they need to destroy.”
“Thank you…”
“No need to thank me if you’ll do one small favor.”
“If it’s nothing…”
“When you open the cabinet, you’ll find a star shaped stone object inside; can you bring it back to me here?”
“Yes, if it’s not against the hospital’s rules.”
“I assure you it isn’t. Just remember to bring it to me. You will, won’t you?”
I assured him I would and taking the note with the address on it, I bid him goodbye. He watched me leave by the open door.
Although when Walker had given me the assignment I’d been somewhat annoyed at the whole thing, I admit that by the time I left the hospital, my curiosity had been piqued. I found myself eager for a little expedition of my own out to Dean’s Corners, a small town in the central part of the state known mostly for its number of elite private academies.
Although I gave no credence to Sanders’ story, his invitation to visit his home in Dean’s Corners, which is next door to often mysterious and backward Dunwich, struck me as possibly being of some interest. So, with Walker’s permission, I set out the following Saturday traveling north on Route 128.
Near noon, I left the highway at the old Aylesbury Pike interchange and gradually, the urban landscape of the eastern part of Massachusetts gave way to more open country. By the time I’d driven another hour or so, farmland predominated with the occasional roadside produce stand deserted and waiting for warmer months. At last, a roadside marker welcomed me to Dean’s Corners, established 1742.
Private homes began to make their appearance again as the strange, steep hills that gave the town much of its character came into view. Historic signs named them off: Gibbet Hill, Throne Hill, Castle Hill. From what I could tell, Dean’s Corners was a typical New England town with a main street lined with local businesses including the usual attorney and real estate offices, a café or two, a local branch bank, and a dozen or so consignment and antique shops. Consulting my GPS device, I turned off at Hollis by the Congregational Church and, driving past the public cemetery, found the road I wanted. Sanders’ home was only a few hundred feet farther on. I’m not sure what I’d expected but it wasn’t the pleasant little Cape that I found. It was set a ways back from the road behind some overgrown hedges that Sanders’ family obviously hadn’t been keeping up with.
I drove a little ways up the paved drive and stopped in front of the garage which was attached to the house. Paint was peeling on the door and pretty much everywhere else. The front lawn was shaggy to say the least, and branches downed by some recent storm littered the roof.
At least it looked as if I wouldn’t have to worry about any family members wondering what a stranger was doing entering the house.
Leaving the car, I took my briefcase and made my way around the back. There, the yard was also unkempt but screened from the view of any neighbors by overgrown pine trees and other brush. There was evidence that local deer had been nosing about.
I discovered the back door and after climbing onto a wooden garden chair and feeling about the gutter, found the keys secured against the weather in a plastic sandwich bag. The larger key fit the lock. Pushing in the swollen door, I stepped into the garage where a vehicle was stored covered in a sheet. Ignoring it, I entered the kitchen through an inside door and wasted little time locating the study.
Luckily, it was at the back of the house where any activity wouldn’t be noticed by the neighbors. I set down my briefcase and shrugged out of my overcoat. The furnace was operational but was obviously set at a low temperature. At a glance, the desk top was clear wi
th the usual accoutrements in their proper places. So I picked out the smaller key from the plastic bag and sitting in the padded swivel chair, tried it in the cabinet door.
It worked, and the door sprung open revealing a few folders stuffed with papers and to my surprise, a number of other items as well.
Taking them out, I immediately recognized the star shaped stone that Sanders had asked me to bring to him. It was a Mnar stone, an object believed by some to help in warding off danger. I struggled to recall what I’d heard about them from other members of the Miskatonic faculty, but all I could remember was that it had something to do with the Cthulhu myth cycle.
Pocketing the stone, I inspected a cast made of some kind of print that I soon associated with those of the deer outside the house. It struck me as strange why Sanders would bother producing such a thing, or storing it in the cabinet with papers dealing with his delusions. But seeing the print at closer range, it did strike me as somewhat strange and not like a deer’s at all.
In one of the folders I found a group of photographs, among them those showing the same kind of prints as they appeared in the ground behind the house. Turning the photo over, I saw that someone, most likely Sanders, had scribbled a note reading “Tracks found in the backyard: Mi-Go?”
Recalling what he had told me about alien creatures by the same name, I wondered if Sanders believed that the same beings had been congregating on his property? I smiled at the imagined scenario until I remembered that the same kinds of tracks were reported around the Pickerton hospital, and a vague feeling of discomfort suddenly came over me. Shaking it off, I continued to look through the photos coming across a group shot obviously of the Hughbanks Expedition with a young Sanders smiling in the back row. A few other photographs showed a number of ruins virtually hidden among thick jungle growth.
Immediately, the shape of the stone structures, whose size was only hinted at in the photos due to there being little in the jungle setting to compare them with, caught my attention. The culture of the ancient Mayan people was my field of special study, so my eye was trained to recognize the architectural styles they used over the centuries of their development and, though the structures in the photos had some familiar aspects, they were overall completely new to me, representing a heretofore undiscovered era of Mayan history.
Goat Mother and Others: The Collected Mythos Fiction of Pierre Comtois Page 41